Rebekah's Treasure

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Our business takes us elsewhere,” I answer quickly. The woman makes me uneasy. What does she mean by feeding our donkey then telling us about how believers were made into torches? I glance at Zechariah as I lead the donkey away. He seems perfectly at ease, and I’m left wondering why.

  “If only that Centurion Cor . . . Cornellus . . . .”

  “Cornelius,” Zachariah says, correcting me.

  “Yes, if only he and his family were still here. They would help us,” I say, happy to be leaving the house of that strange woman.

  Zechariah shrugs. “It’s been years since he and his family were baptized by Peter the Apostle. The last time I was here I could find neither him nor his relatives.”

  “But surely Caesarea has a Gentile church? Surely Cornelius left a remnant of believers behind?”

  “Yes, Peter broke that barrier, and Paul, too. And I’ve heard the church was a strong one even though some Jewish believers refused to fellowship with them. But where to look? The revolt has soured many Gentiles toward us Jews. And the followers of Jesus, even Gentile followers, are not highly regarded by the Romans. Making inquires could be dangerous. We must be cautious, and first formulate a plan.”

  By the time we reach the end of the Jewish Quarter we’re still without a plan, though Zechariah surprises me with a strange suggestion. “Our long journey has wearied us both. Come. Let’s return to that women’s house and pass a restful evening. Tonight we’ll pray and ask God what He would have us do.”

  “But . . . Zechariah . . . you heard the woman . . . how strangely she spoke. Surely, you don’t mean you want to lodge beneath her roof?”

  Zechariah chuckles. “Yes, I believe that’s just where the Lord would have us go.”

  And so we head back to the house near the north gate.

  Her name is Hannah, and she smiles when we ask for lodgings. By way of answer, she takes the reins of the donkey from my hand, then leads us around to the back of the house and into a small outer courtyard where she feeds and waters my animal before bringing us inside.

  Her dwelling is tidy and clean, and made of plastered mudbrick, with several rooms built around a central courtyard. Though it is modest, being neither overly spacious nor lavishly furnished, compared to my house in Pella it’s a luxurious mansion.

  She brings us into a large room with a tiled floor where a waisthigh work area, all made of masonry, contains both an oven for baking bread and a fire pit for cooking. She gestures for us to sit at a well-made wooden table. It’s evident that Hannah is a woman of some means.

  “I have a pot of lentils cooking.” She grins and gestures to the many spaces in her mouth. “I fear that’s all I can manage to eat these days, other than cheese. Even so, the lentils must be very soft. You won’t mind that, will you?”

  “I’m grateful to share whatever food you have. Of course we’ll pay well for both it and our lodging,” I add, eager to relieve her of any worry that she has invited worthless strangers into her house.

  Zechariah, who sits beside me, nods.

  “We can discuss that later,” Hannah eyes us strangely as she stirs her lentils. “But first tell me, have you come from the Via Maris?”

  “No. We traveled the Caesarea-Scythopolis Highway,” Zechariah says.

  “Ah, yes, of course, you coming from Pella, from the east, like you said. Then you missed all the congestion. I hear the Via Maris is clogged with Titus’s legions.” She makes a strange spitting sound. “Clogged with soldiers, and thousands of captives from Jerusalem.” Hannah’s back is to us as she hovers over the steaming pot, but she turns her head to the side and watches us out of the corner of her eye.

  “When will . . . they arrive?” I say, hardly able to control the tremor in my voice.

  “In three, maybe four days. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  My stomach rolls into a fist. Can Esther really be so near?

  “Might be longer, though.” Hannah puts down her wooden spoon, then walks over and takes the stool next to mine. She sits close, too close, and I begin to feel we’ve made a mistake in coming here. After all, what do we know about her? She could be mad, or even a spy for the Romans.

  “That pig, Titus!” Hannah suddenly blurts, then begins spitting on the floor. She actually spits on her tile floor! “He’s been squandering his captives in lavish blood sports. They say he’s stopping in every arena along the Via Maris.” She gazes at us intently. “Too many captives drive down the price. Titus knows he’ll get little for the slavers. So what better way to use his human booty?”

  “But . . . I heard he was bringing the captives here, to Caesarea,” I say. “Some destined for Rome, others for auction in the marketplace; especially the women. With the army returning, surely they’ll want more women for the brothels?”

  “If they’re young enough, yes.” Hannah tents her fingers. Her yellow, cracked nails, the deeply creased skin of her hands, all betray her advanced age. But her gray eyes, those piercing gray eyes reveal a keen, vibrant mind. “Ah,” she finally says, after a long silence. “You have someone you’re hoping to find. Someone captured in Jerusalem.”

  I cover my face with my hands. The anxiety of the trip, the death of Kyra, and now this devastating news that Esther might have already been killed in the arena, all conspire to reduce me to a quivering heap as I bend over the table and sob.

  I feel Hannah’s leathery hand patting my arm. “Yes, I understand. I understand. For I, too, search.”

  When I sit up, she quickly tells us how her son went to Jerusalem for Passover, in spite of her warnings and pleadings; then became trapped inside the city like so many other pilgrims. “I don’t know if he lives. How could I know for sure? But something inside me,” she thumps her chest, “something in here tells me he does.” She suddenly clasps my hands like a madwoman and throws back her head and laughs. “Oh, how I’ve prayed to Hashem, imploring him night and day; asking Him that if my son still lives, to bring him back here to Caesarea.”

  When she jumps from the chair, her scarf slips from her head and rings her shoulders, revealing thick gray hair bound in one neat plait. “And what else do you think I’ve been praying for?” She waves her hands in the air. “Never mind, I’ll tell you. Money! Money enough to buy my son from the slave block. I’m a widow. My husband left behind this house and the possessions in it, but only one bagful of shekels. After so many years, that bag is nearly empty. We had our son late in life. And after my husband died I had to raise Judah alone. He was only a boy of eight and unable to provide for me, so the bag of shekels kept us both. He is a man now, a good son who supports me, but even so I fear there are not enough shekels left for the slavers. But see, Hashem has sent you!

  “I tested you, with talk of this dead Jesus, with talk of human torches. And still you spoke out fearlessly. My son—he believes as you do—he says this Jesus isn’t dead. But never mind that now.” She points to Zechariah. “I knew you were the one. ‘Now there’s an honest man,’ I said to myself. ‘He can be trusted.’” Hannah is skipping around the room now. “See how good Hashem is! He has answered one prayer. He has sent me an honest man, someone I can trust to share my house and food, and to pay me for it; to give me the money I need to buy my son’s freedom. And if Hashem answered this prayer, surely He’ll answer the other.”

  As I sit and watch Hannah leap around the room like a young girl, clapping her hands in glee, my heart is greatly moved and I determine then and there to help her. Should she need more money, she can have some of the coins from my semadi.

  Finally, when she has tired herself out, Hannah returns to the table. She leans over and takes both Zechariah’s hand and mine in hers. “Until Titus comes,” she makes a spitting sound again, but this time I’m not so horrified, “until that pig comes, you’ll stay with me. And we’ll pray to Hashem and make our plans, for I’ve not forgotten your sorrow either.” She squeezes my hand. Then she closes her eyes as if suddenly remembering something. And when she opens them, those
wonderful vibrant gray eyes are fierce. “It’s only fair I tell you of an added danger. We, my son and I, are from the tribe of Judah, from the house of David. And it’s rumored that Vespasian has ordered the slaying of all the descendants of the royal house, in order to cut off David’s bloodline forever.

  PELLA/CAESAREA MARITIMA 70 A.D.

  CHAPTER 8

  My heart races as I look down into the Jordan Valley and settle my gaze on the city nestled among emerald hills. I picture Rebekah, and imagine her arms around me, her sweet lips covering my face with kisses, her beautiful hair blowing in the breeze. Will she weep? Will she laugh in disbelief? What will she say? Surely she will bless Hashem and praise the name of Yeshua.

  And what will I say? My throat tightens. How will I tell her about Abner and Joseph? How can I relive these sorrows or inflict them on her? I’ve prayed about this for days but am no closer to a remedy, as if there is one. And my dilemma is compounded by my prayer that Esther has not gone to Jerusalem as Josiah claims, when I already know in my heart that she has.

  “There, to the left of the wadi, is where the believers live.” Aaron points to a section of Pella whose houses are smaller, more rundown than their counterparts on the other side. “I know a way to bypass the Gentiles. It will avoid trouble.”

  We didn’t travel along the coast on the Via Maris as originally planned. Benjamin talked me out of it. Too many Romans, as Josiah warned. And the closer we got to Jerusalem, the thicker they became. Without disguises, we were in danger of being recognized. So we skirted the ruins of the Holy City, and traveled the isolated footpaths of the Judean wilderness instead.

  Now Aaron leads us down the slope toward Pella. He’s told me much about this city, about the believers here. It was this telling, this description of Rebekah and Esther safe among friends that provided my one comfort these many months.

  But the war seems far away now as I listen to the bleating of sheep, see the fig trees laden with ripened fruit, smell the aroma of freshly baked bread. And my heart soars as it beats out Rebekah’s name.

  “How will you tell Mama about Abner and Joseph?” Benjamin says in that calm, practical way of his, causing my soaring heart to plummet to the ground. And a shrug is the only answer I can manage

  “Rebekah!” I shout when we near the small mudbrick house Aaron has lead us to. My breath catches when a woman appears from around the back, her hands caked with dirt. “Rebekah?” I squint against the harsh sun, but even in the glare I can tell the woman is a stranger, someone I’ve never seen before.

  She studies us for a moment, then throws up her arms in delight. “Aaron!” She wipes her hands on her tunic, smearing dirt down each side, then scurries to meet us. “Oh, Aaron, we thought you were lost! But God has answered our prayers!” She enfolds Aaron in her arms. “You are one of many friends and relatives He has preserved. Sons, husbands, brothers, uncles, all have been returning to us in small numbers. You are the latest miracle.”

  “Where . . . is she?” I stammer like a young bridegroom when the woman releases my son. Before she can answer, Aaron introduces her as Mary, wife of Simon the bottlemaker.

  “Rebekah’s not here,” Mary says, peering kindly at my face. “I and others have been tending her gardens and watching the house.” She makes a sweeping motion with her hand. “You’ll find everything in good order.”

  “But where is she? Not sick . . . she hasn’t sickened and . . . ?” The word sticks in my throat. Died. That was the word I couldn’t say. I’ve seen too much death. Now it’s always the first thing that comes to mind.’

  “Oh, forgive me. Here I’m going on as if you knew her whereabouts. Rebekah has gone to Caesarea by the sea.”

  “Caesarea! Now why would she go to Caesarea?” Without meaning to, I sound like a General interrogating an underling.

  “Rebekah hoped . . . that is . . . she thought she’d find Esther among Titus’s captives. She planned to purchase her daughter’s freedom.”

  I fling curses into the air like pebbles, trying to assail both my disappointment and fear. Mary’s face reddens. I’ve embarrassed her. My sons, too.

  “Father,” Aaron says softly.

  Benjamin puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me.

  “How could she put herself in such danger?” My voice still sounds like a blasting trumpet. I, who once commanded armies, am now unable to command my own emotions. “She knows how dangerous the roads are! Why didn’t she wait for us?”

  Benjamin tightens his grip on my shoulder. “Father, she could hardly know we were coming.”

  Mary, the bottlemaker’s wife, bobs her head up and down like a quail. “Yes, that’s right. She thought you were dead, all of you. Oh, how she grieved! But for Esther’s sake she gathered her strength and courage. The thought of losing her daughter, too, was more than she could bear.”

  The woman’s words are like darts in my heart. For the first time I’m forced to consider what life has been like for Rebekah; the uncertainty, the fear, the agony of not knowing what was happening to me, to her sons. The loneliness, the feelings of abandonment. And anger? Was there anger, too? Hadn’t she pleaded for us all to leave Jerusalem? Together? She never wanted to go alone, even preferring death in Jerusalem to separation. I knew that. I’ve always known it. But how could I allow my sweet Rebekah and Esther to perish in such a manner?

  Still, Rebekah has a keen mind. I’ve always been able to trust her judgment. “It’s not like her to behave so foolishly,” I hear myself bark. “She knows better than to travel alone.”

  Mary’s cheeks are as red as pomegranates as she rubs her hands along the sides of her tunic. “She wasn’t alone. Zechariah went with her.”

  “Zechariah?” I don’t know whether to feel relief that she has a protector or anger that she is alone with another man.

  “He is . . . was the elder of our church,” Mary quickly adds. “He’s a godly man who came here from Ephesus, straight from John the Apostle.”

  My mind is a grinding wheel, crushing emotions and thoughts together like kernels of wheat. Rebekah believes I’m dead, and has gone off with another man—a godly man, says this bottlemaker’s wife. I’ve seen so-called godly men before. Didn’t Eleazar ben Simon drive them out by the hundreds from the Temple?

  But it was I who sent her away. Can I now blame her if she has made a new life? Can I blame her if she now has found love with another? Oh, Rebekah, do you love another?

  Maybe if I had come to Pella sooner . . . maybe then Esther wouldn’t have gone to Jerusalem . . . maybe Rebekah wouldn’t be with this man. What kept me? Revenge, as Rebekah claimed? Or duty to Hashem and His Temple? Living stones. We are temples of living stones. I give my head a shake to dislodge Rebekah’s accusing words.

  “How long ago did she leave?” Aaron’s face is taut.

  “Less than a week.” Mary turns to me, her fingers picking at her tunic nervously. “But I think you misunderstand. Rebekah and Kyra both went with Zechariah.”

  Benjamin, my level headed son, laughs. “There is no misunderstanding. We are grateful for Zechariah’s protection. And Kyra’s too, whoever she might be.”

  I know what he’s doing. He’s clever, this son of mine, and he understands me well.

  Mary quickly explains who Kyra is, and ends by telling us that Argos has also left the city. Then her brows knot. “He made a great display of leaving with three men, spewing outrage and anger, and vowing he would reclaim his runaway slave. But word is, he actually ordered Kyra to escape in order to pursue Rebekah’s cup.”

  “Her cup?” Now I am perplexed. Rebekah has always had a high regard for her cup for reasons I well understand and respect, but why would it be worth anything to someone else?

  “Her cup has brought many miracles to Pella,” Mary says. “Argos is sick with jealousy, and desires it for himself. The believers here have all been praying much for Rebekah’s safety. Zachariah’s and Kyra’s, too. But now that you’ve come, surely you and your sons will be God’s strong a
rm, and protect them.”

  I bless her for her kindness. And as she exits through the gate in the stone wall, I’m already planning what we must do.

  My hand tightens around the hilt of my dagger as I lean against the small open window of Rebekah’s upstairs loft. I’ve been watching the same shadow pass back and forth outside our gate since just before sunrise. Age keeps me from sleeping as soundly as my sons who still lie snoring on the floor. I’ve resisted waking them. The journey here was long and tiring, and tomorrow we leave for Caesarea. But the shadow outside disquiets me, so finally I nudge my sons awake. If trouble is coming we must be prepared.

  When they stretch and yawn and open their eyes, I press one finger against my lips and show them the dagger in my hand. Quickly and quietly they rise, then secure their own weapons.

  I return again to the window. It’s light enough now to determine that the shadow is a tall, broad man in a Greekish-looking tunic. What could a Greek be doing here? I’m still wondering about this as one by one my sons and I descend the ladder. After Aaron and Benjamin conceal themselves along the wall, I open the door.

  “You there,” I shout. “What is the meaning of your presence?” Instead of the man fleeing, like I expected, he opens the gate and steps into our courtyard.

  “Are you Ethan, husband of Rebekah the Jewess?” The man yells, clearly hesitant about coming closer.

  “And if I am, what business is it of yours?”

  “I . . . that is . . . must we shout at one another? May I approach?”

  “If you come in peace.”

  The man raises his hands above his head, then slowly turns around making a complete circle. “I carry no weapon. My mission is one of good will.”

  I signal for Aaron and Benjamin to show themselves. The three of us must be a sight: Benjamin, tall and broad, still holding his dagger; Aaron, with a patch over one eye, frowning; and me with my scarred bare arms glistening with sweat as I sheath my own weapon; all crowded together in the doorway.